


Slow Death

by resurrectedhippo



Category: Marvel 616
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Depression, Guilt, M/M, Post-Civil War (Marvel), Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Suicidal Thoughts, post-brain delete
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:15:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28211496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/resurrectedhippo/pseuds/resurrectedhippo
Summary: He was inclined to put a bullet in his head and make his own Pollock on the bathroom mirrors. Hooking himself to terminal stations and wiping away the data wasn't enough. Maria Hill was right, he should have just taken the gun, blown his brain out, and let them all deal with mashing the rest of his bits.But death was too easy and Tony had many things to atone for. Slow, slow death, that’s what living was all about.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 13
Kudos: 71
Collections: Stony's Sad Secret Santa 2020





	Slow Death

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Welcoming_Disaster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Welcoming_Disaster/gifts).



> For Lena, who requested Civil War angst, memory issues post-mind wipe, and a hopeful ending. This is canon divergence as Steve and Tony don’t reconcile in Avengers Prime. I also took some liberties with Tony’s “back-up” here. 
> 
> Written for the stevetony darkfest. Thank you to oluka and sapph for the alpha, and temp for the beta.

* * *

"This quiets the screams, dulls the pain...hurries along the slow dying..." — _Iron Man Vol 1 #182_

* * *

He could haul his ass up and walk the seven steps to open the hotel mini-fridge. The selection was varied. From where he was currently sprawled on the bed, he could see the gleaming bottle of Knob Creek beside the Blue Label. He could do it. He could walk over. He was functional now. Brain and organs were intact with minimal damage. 

Extremis had repaired him, but it couldn’t do anything to mend the fact that his life was in shambles. 

Tony fiddled with the telephone instead, running the keys, dialing the front desk only to hang up on the second ring.

He was going to get up. He was going to roll out of bed and grab whatever bottle his hand landed on. Hopefully it would be tequila because he was not in the mood to be somber. He was going to wash his sobriety with the rest of his sins, and then maybe he’d forget the fact that he failed his country, failed his team, failed Steve. 

Tony tossed the tools lying haphazardly on the unkempt bed and reached for the nail gun. He pressed the trigger, testing the rapid release from the chamber. He sat back, propped on the bed, and stared at the bottles across the room like they were offensive. 

Above the mantel hung an idyllic painting of the countryside. Flowers in bloom. Children running around with their plaid skirts. If only life could be like that. 

No, he wasn’t going to drink. 

He dropped his hand to the bed, directed the gun to his fingers and pulled the trigger. Five consecutive shots to each of his fingers, and then two on his wrist to curb the desire to pull the nails off. 

Pinned to the bed like a bizarre version of Christ, he planned to stay and bleed on the bed sheets instead of opening the bottle. 

The blood oozed from his hands, dying the white of the bedsheets with the color of the suit. 

Pain but no motor or vascular deficits, Extremis informed him. This was child’s play, a barely there snap to the bones. He was used to the smell of drying blood and the crunch of bones. He stopped Extremis from pushing out the thick nails and snapped three more down his forearms. 

Let him feel it. It was supposed to hurt.

Tony settled into bed, sipped a glass of water and wished he could trade the bottle of Valium on the side table for an ounce of cocaine. Tony pulled the armor’s undersuit over himself and laid in the coffin of his own making. 

Gone, gone, gone away, he eroded with the rest of his sanity. 

* * *

He stood on an empty platform late in the evening, waiting for the subway train on 86th Street when a woman, likely the wife of another rich bastard, entered the station. Her heels clattered on the concrete, a quiet pounding sound that accompanied the hum of the flickering lights. She smiled at him, her red stained lips turning into a small grin. She took off her heels, set them down by the platform, and draped a fur winter coat beside it. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t think anyone would be here so late.” She turned to him, biting her lips. “Won’t you go grab a soda by the machine?”

“I’m not thirsty,” Tony replied, catching the way her fingers twitched on the hem of her dress. 

“Please, just indulge me, then.”

“Alright,” Tony said, because society people have notoriously impeccable manners even if it was all smoke and mirrors. As he stepped back to the machine, the station bells rang to announce the arrival of the car. It was a loud, angry whistle that shook the edges of the platform. 

There were only three inches separating the ledge from the track. It only took one blink for her to hop down, throwing herself onto the tracks and into the path of the speeding train.

There were shock impulses from the wheels, high vibrations that sounded like waves. Only this time, the train blared, wailing loud from a short distance. The conductor must have seen her because the ringing continued like some formidable warning. 

She stared at Tony, her wide blue eyes filled with tears. Even in death, she looked defiant, as if this was the only choice left. 

The train passed through. 

He learned that there were over five million people riding New York City's transit per day. Five million people is the size of a small country and he was the only one to witness the woman step down the ledge. 

She didn't look back. 

Tony remembered thinking, she must have been in a lot of pain to make the leap. While desperation was present in her features, she was determined, as if this was all she had left to give.

Tony wondered if her pain could have been measured. If he could scavenge the blood long erased from the platform and inspect how much more he could withstand before he reached that moment too.

The choice to end it all.

He hadn’t taken the subway since he was thirteen because his brain refused to erase the twist of her face and the piercing scream. When Tony walked the streets of New York, he avoided staring at subway entrances. Not even a glance to check where they led or what lines ran that street. 

The stairs of the entrances always led him down that awful night with him, barely a man, still growing taller and taller, shoulders broadening, being led by a petite police officer to the corner of the station. 

Can you tell us what happened, she had asked. Another said, he’s in shock. Then, a whisper, yeah, that kid’s a witness. A gasp recognizing him, that’s Stark’s son, you know, of Stark Industries? They got his contact info and gave him a ride home.

Hours later, he learned that the train tracks were cleared and the subway resumed it's schedule. The body, what was left of it, was taken piece by piece and placed in a bag, carted away, and life resumed. The subway station announced the arrival of a new car, like nothing happened. 

He still had her blood on his shoes and the rancid smell of a New York subway station on his clothes.

Witnessing death for the first time didn’t change him. It should have. But it didn’t. Instead, he didn’t take the subway anymore. It was his first experience with death, and like a rite of passage, more death followed. 

He was awake now, learning to live with the understanding that grief made people do awful things. 

Another train passed through. 

* * *

He should be asleep, but there was pain right above his eyebrows and under his eyelids and he wanted nothing more than to crawl out of bed and reach for another bottle. The balcony doors were shut, but the curtains were drawn, revealing the view of New York. 

Skyscrapers loomed against the night sky and he couldn’t help but think that he should be out there. Running missions, enduring a debrief from the fallout of his tenure at SHIELD, or something as simple as flying in the suit. 

His brain worked at an incredible speed, yet it only led him to these maudlin thoughts. It should be better. He should be able to compartmentalize, determine the next course of action in this pedestrian life of his. Tony laid there, paralyzed by his inability to digest the influx of information Extremis was sending him. Memories, thoughts, all ugly and jagged, like a shadowed past he was unable to hide. 

He let it fester, information darting from one memory to another. Jumping and jumping. He kept leaping across different times. Tony closed his eyes and pressed a hand to his forehead. The other was still stapled to the bed. 

It was back to the trains. There was the lady in red jumping and staring at him. 

He recounted that evening to another person, one who didn’t wear a badge or carry a baton or asked him why his parents let him roam around the city so late. 

Ru, on the verge of falling asleep, had said, “Tell me a secret no one knows.” 

There were so many other things he could have told her. How Yinsen fed him and held him up as he took a piss because he couldn’t accomplish the most elementary things while his heart was giving out. Maybe he should have realized what a feat survival would be. 

They never told him that the other side of surviving meant finding the will to live. 

With Ru beside him, Tony had felt a little braver. But he was never at ease because if you let your walls down, you allow people to crawl inside your body and sometimes all they want to do is live in your bones, until you don’t realize they’re there at all. And once they become part of you, it’s hard to ask them to leave.

Tony has never been good at saying goodbyes. 

* * *

The next time he woke up, someone was prying the balcony doors open. A quick snap of the wrist and the handle broke. Carol stepped inside, body framed by the setting sun.

Extremis informed him of the date and time. He’d slept half the day away.

“Get up.” Carol threw the door knob on the foot of the bed. 

He groaned, pressing his fingers to the bridge of his nose. He couldn’t see her. He couldn’t think. But most of all, he needed to stop being a mess. He knew this, understood with conviction that he needed to be Iron Man. 

He had a problem. He knew this. He'd known this all his life. 

Tony always got obsessed with a project. Got fixated on making things right, letting it consume him until it was his only thought, the last refrain on his head, echoing over and over. But now, he didn’t care. Nothing mattered.

Carol traced the perimeter of the room. There were painkillers on the bedside table, vomit on the floor, and blood on the sheets. 

“Dammit, Tony.”

“What is it?” he asked, moving the fingers with nails still stuck in them. His hand had stopped bleeding sometime ago. Every time he swung the bottle, he eyed the way his skin protruded. He tapped the bed to a beat, waiting. 

She looked so damned earnest, he couldn’t do anything but hide his head in shame. Tony dropped his head and turned to count the patterns of the flickering light.

“Why do you make things so difficult for yourself? Come on, get up.” She dropped to the bed and reached for his hand. She wiped her face. “Fuck, Tony. Let me get these off.” Carol looked around, eyeing the tools beside the half-finished gauntlet. “Can I use this —” 

She didn’t wait for an answer. 

Carol snapped the pipe grip on the head of the nail and pulled until the nails released. She repeated the process on the rest of his fingers and on his wrists. Blood dripped in increments. It was only when Carol reached his forearm that Tony realized she was crying. 

Tony pulled away. He couldn’t show himself. Steve didn’t even want to speak to him. Now, Carol was crying.

“Why’d you do this?” She whispered, voice calm. 

He swallowed and it felt like forcing glass down his throat. He should apologize, but he didn’t know how he could be sorry for this. 

“After everything I’ve done, I just want to forget,” Tony said, eyeing the empty bottles haphazardly thrown on the floor and at the foot of the bed. He could still taste tequila on his lips. 

Bill Foster’s body flashed over his eyes. He waved it away, tired of looking at Bill’s dead body, betrayal evident on his face. 

Carol stilled. “Do you remember? Pepper said that the back-up wasn’t complete.” 

“I’m remembering. I get flashes. Memories, I think. It loops and loops. I keep seeing death. Steve.” He choked on the final word.

“So you’re thinking the worst.”

He woke up from the coma, they fought Osborn, and now he was here, reeling with the blowback. His brain kept feeding him images of his failures. There was something fucked there, but Tony didn’t bother to check. Maybe remembering was his punishment. 

“Haven’t I done the worst? Steve hates me. He couldn't look at me in the field. He didn't speak to me in Asgard. I _tried,_ I —” he trailed off, remembering how Steve saved him from the lizards but refused to acknowledge his presence after.

She dropped the pliers, not bothering to pull off the nails on the inside of his elbows. “He doesn’t hate you.”

“Carol, I got him killed.” 

“That wasn’t you!” 

“I lead us there.”

“You’re going to a meeting, let’s go,” she commanded.

“No.”

“Get up!” Carol yelled, jumping forward to grip him by the shoulders. 

He yanked himself away from her grip, pushing his body further into the bed. She grabbed his forearms and dug her fingers on the nails until they surpassed the soft issue and lodged into his bone. 

Tony gritted his teeth and shoved her, but it wasn’t enough. She was stronger, and he was weak, a body that hadn’t seen the sun in days. 

“Fuck,” Carol said, and he paused, waiting for the impact of a punch, but instead, she grabbed him by the neck and cried. “Tony, no. Don’t _do this._ ”

He was exhausted. He wanted to drink himself to sleep and numb the roaring in his chest everytime the memories pressed at the base of his skull. “Carol, just go.”

"You helped me when I was drinking. I'm not giving up on you, Tony. Over and over again, I've seen you fight beyond your limits and you never give up. We just got you back. You don’t get to give up.” Carol cradled his face. Tears streamed from her face, and her eyes were so blue they reminded him of Steve’s. “This isn’t the way to be sorry, you know.” 

The ghosts kept laughing, haunting him, and Carol’s presence made it all worse. 

“You’d know something about that.” 

She snaked one hand on his back and one under his knees, lifting him with ease. “We’re going. We’re gonna get you help. Hold still, alright?”

When you’re hurting, you hurt people who want you to be better. Shove them away so they don’t see that there’s nowhere else to go but downhill. 

Carol flew them towards the bathroom. Tony broke away from her grip and threw himself against the floor. 

“Fuck off.” He wanted to scream but his throat was raw from crying, and all he could do was wonder what Ru would think if she was still alive. 

Carol loomed over him and refused to look away. She balled her fists and he really wished she'd stop staring at him in pity. Was this how she’d felt when Tony had showed up at her house, pulled the faceplate up and begged her to get help? Possibly, he thought, he must have been full of shit. 

“Iron Man. I’m not going to ask again.” 

Tony shut his eyes. He didn’t want to spend anymore time looking at her and reminding himself that at one point, he had been in Carol’s position. 

He wasn't drunk enough. He felt for a small bottle on the floor and reached for it. He uncapped it and guzzled it down, almost choking with the way he couldn’t hold his head up. Tony drank another and another, and Carol was screaming and bearing down on him, holding his wrists too hard and prying the bottle away. 

There was the sound of alcohol being washed down the drain. It was fine. He'd call the front desk and ask them to bring champagne this time. 

“You got too good at being alone,” Carol said, and her voice sounded very far away. “Sometimes I wonder how you could love him when you hate yourself so much.”

Tony was cold and he thought that the balcony door might still be open, but he didn’t want to check. That required moving. 

He’d get sober tomorrow. He would. Tomorrow would be different. Tomorrow he might jump out of the window instead and forget he could call the armor in an instant. Make it look like an accident. 

It was alright, they’d believe it. His brain had holes and kept feeding him his mistakes in a loop. 

It wasn’t worth it. 

The excuse was ready. 

He kept his eyes shut and drifted.

* * *

He tried not to think about Ru because when his meandering thoughts led down to that little file in his head he told himself to never touch, he wanted to strip himself from the suit and throw himself out of the window. He was stupid to believe that there’d be a time when grief would fade into dull ache. 

Ru lived in the space of his breastbone, a tiny thing that spun around his ribs, making his heart stutter anytime he saw someone with a red dress. It was always hurting. Always there, reminding him what it’s like to grieve.

He wasn’t going to think about how her wet hair dripped over her body in that navy bikini. He wasn’t going to think about her full lips and the mole on the upper corner of her mouth. He was going to delete the memories of her teasing remark and a sing-song voice. He was going to delete the pitch of her laugh and the way she straddled him and called him lover. 

Tony wasn’t going to think about how she got him out of a conversation with Sunset Bain and if it wasn't for Firebrands, he might have tried to hold her hand. Maybe he should have left her alone that first time, rejected her quick offer for help and the easy comfort that came with her presence. 

She was spitfire in that little red dress, slit to the side showing the length of her thigh. The golden thigh bracelet. She rubbed his cock through his slacks that night, teasing, not letting him come. _Don't want to get your tux all dirty, lover._

Did he put her down the tracks too? He might as well have. Her last words, _Tony_ — 

And then, she was gone.

Delete, delete, delete. 

Maybe then, he’d stop seeing her dead body in the corner of his eye. 

* * *

He woke up sweating with snot dripping from his nose. He was still on the floor. The room smelled so foul that he scrunched his nose and nearly gagged. It wasn't until he was in the bathroom looking at his reflection that he realized that the putrid smell was coming from him. 

His shirt was rumpled. Two buttons were missing, and while he didn’t bother rolling up his sleeves, one of the silver cufflinks was also absent. There were sweat stains under his armpits and his goatee had been transformed into a full beard. There were crumbs from the toast he tried to eat hours ago. A day ago, maybe. 

He had a black eye but he couldn't remember how he got it. Maybe it was when he stumbled out of bed, fell and hit the side of the table. Or when he slammed his face down the toilet bowl to vomit. He had trouble sorting out the dates. Day and night bled onto each other without remorse for his sanity. 

It could have been hours or days. He remembered Carol linking their hands together and crying, and he remembered the look of shame that passed through her expression before he closed his eyes. 

Like a newborn child, all he could see were colors and shapes of memories he couldn’t fully comprehend. His brain was fucked, just a set of nerve endings that failed to separate substantial memories from feelings. 

Tony devoured the news reports documenting the war, trying to piece together how they fell apart. It was his fault. 

Images flickered in his mind. As he read the reports, pulled up Extremis, his mind tried to corroborate the information with unclear images, fragmented scenes, puzzling conversations he didn't understand the context for. It kept coming and coming, and Tony tried to piece them together. 

It looped and looped. A cycle of mismatched photographs with the same narration. It kept unlocking as the days passed, as if his brain was trying to rewrite the backup and force the truth out.

Extremis showed him Happy and Sal’s death certificates. Then, came the vivid memory of the Mandarin attacking them, Sal smoking up in the Helicarrier and being in the line of fire. As he read about the Mighty Avengers and Ultron, he found himself reliving Jan’s death. 

When he read about the war, he remembered Steve offering a handshake in the battlefield. Then, the EMP. 

He was remembering, as if his subconscious was excavating memories buried in wreckage. But mostly, his thoughts returned to Steve.

Tony wondered about Steve and his final thoughts at the Courthouse. Whether he regretted smearing blood all over Sharon Carter, or if he found blame in that son of a bitch, Tony Stark. 

This was him. Tony could see it clearly now. There were no masks to hide his face behind. Everything he’d done… he needed another drink.

He was inclined to put a bullet in his head and make his own Pollock on the bathroom mirrors. Hooking himself to terminal stations and wiping away the data wasn't enough. Maria Hill was right, he should have just taken the gun, blown his brain out, and let them all deal with mashing the rest of his bits. He should let the red drip along with the hardened water spots on the bathroom mirror. 

But death was too easy and Tony had many things to atone for. Slow, slow death, that’s what living was all about. 

He pried the remaining nail from his forearm. Dried blood flaked on the sink as he dropped it on the counter. He stared at his reflection and saw everything he hated in this world.

Tony entertained the thought that maybe he could be like Maya Hansen and slit his wrist, watch the waters turn pink with his blood. Except, he wouldn’t be like Maya where it’s all pretend, a photograph doctored to trick him.

Monsters didn’t crawl under the bed and wait to come out once it was dark. All Tony had to do was wake up in the morning, look at himself in the mirror, and find the places in his reflection that he couldn’t stand to look at. 

He checked the functionality of Extremis because he was not invincible and he’d never tried to be anything other than human, but sometimes desperation meant injecting yourself with a reality check — that you weren't like them and you couldn’t do much outside of the armor. Without it, you were a vulnerable piece of shit, just like the rest of this sorry world. 

Gum on the concrete and the smell of foul garbage in scorching New York summers. Sometimes, Tony thought that might be all he had left. This tiny corner in the world, an island full of people who either despised him so much they called for him to be hung for war crimes or to be put in the category of a hero. 

It was a classification he didn’t deserve. That was reserved for people like _Steve._

* * *

Back in the room, he closed the balcony doors, shut the curtains, and tossed the broken knob in the bin. Sitting on the bed, Tony phoned the receptionist. “Champagne, please. And two bottles of every liquor you have in stock.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Stark, we are under strict orders not to provide alcohol for the rest of your stay.”

“I’ll presume a dear friend of mine provided you those orders.” Tony clenched his jaw, wondering what Carol threatened the hotel staff with. “Bring me the bottles and you’ll get a two-thousand dollar tip.”

“Sir.” The man on the phone coughed. 

“Now, please.”

He’d taken apart the television set earlier, now he tasked himself with setting it right and improving the circuitry. Tony was lost in the wires and panels that ran on the machine, and he'd work much better with a glass of brandy, but he had none. Carol took all the liquor, even the fridge was empty save for a few bottles of S.Pellegrino. 

Tony waited. He took the television set apart, again and again. He strode across the room and read the week old paper with crusty eyes. 

When patience left him, he resorted to nailing his hand once again. This time he set the nails on his fingertips and in the between his knuckles. 

Tony dropped to the floor and eyed the puddle of vomit with barely a hint of disdain. He rolled over and found a bottle of rum. It was nearly empty, nothing left but a sip.

It would do. Better to numb his brain rather than swim in the murky waters of loose images he couldn’t exactly remember.

He phoned the receptionist with shaky fingers, holding the receiver between the muscle of his neck and shoulder. His other hand was still stapled and he was learning to appreciate the way the distal phalanges curved, like a quirk of a familiar smile. Only, he didn’t remember what smiling felt like. Pride didn’t even make him smile anymore. 

“Top shelf scotch for room 1923, please.”

Again and again, they rejected the request. “This is the Plaza! Champagne, please!” He shouted at the receiver a final time, unplugged the stupid phone from the port, and threw it across the room.

Tony would rather not leave the hotel, but he would if that was the only choice. He was going to get up, button his trousers and find shoes. They had to be here, somewhere. He’d go down the block and find a liquor store and buy as much as he could carry. 

Tony dropped to the bed and cried himself to sleep.

* * *

There was a rapt knock on the door. It must be the champagne. It had to be. 

Tony dragged himself up and stumbled towards the door. It wasn’t the service butler. 

“No,” he said, staring at Steve Rogers. He was in civilian clothes and he looked as handsome as ever. 

“Tony.” 

“Did Carol send you?”

“I came on my own.” Steve raised his hand to stop the door from shutting. He had that concerned quirk in his eyebrows, and Tony remembered that there had been a time when that look made him feel safe. 

“Bullshit.”

“Can I come in?”

“No.” Tony made the move to pull at his hair, only Steve caught his wrists. His fingers were warm and they tightened on his pulse points. He paused, feeling bile rise from his throat. “What am I supposed to do now — what am I — why are you here?” 

“Tony, I wanted to check on you.” 

“I’m fine.”

“You’ve been drinking,” Steve said, mouth in a grim line. 

He catalogued the difference in the set of Steve’s shoulders and the way he held himself together with an air of righteousness. 

It was that righteousness that Tony loved— still loved— and sometimes he wondered how that was still possible. People chose their hells though, and grief was a specific mode of torture. 

Extremis dumped data, confirming this was Steve Rogers. Flesh and blood. Tony wasn’t stuck in the labyrinth of his memories this time. 

Tony was going to be sick. He was already sick. They all said that Steve came to Broxton, but he didn’t stay to see Tony awake. 

He couldn’t look at Steve. Not after Tony followed him in Asgard and Steve pushed him off. Not after Steve walked away, spat on his face, and told him, _For me, we were fighting just weeks ago. I don’t want to see your fucking face right now, Tony._

Steve pushed past him and dragged him further inside. He forced Tony down the sofa and walked into the bedroom. 

Tony stared at the mirror above the fireplace. He didn’t realize his nose was bleeding. That must be the copper taste on his lips. 

Steve returned with a damp washcloth, knelt in front of him, and pressed the towel on his face. Steve ran it over his cheekbones, above his eyelids, and Tony bit his lips to stop a sob from escaping. 

“Steve, I thought you didn’t — ” 

“Shut up,” he gritted out. 

Steve sat back on his heels and pulled Tony’s stapled hand towards his chest. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t even look at Tony. Steve examined the unnatural curl of his hands and unlike Carol, he didn’t bother with the pliers, he just pulled them out without warning. Steve dropped the nails onto the coffee table and wiped the blood from his hand. He reached for Tony’s shirt, unbuttoned it, ignoring all protests, and removed it. 

Tony shivered, and he itched to make half moon indents on his arms. The room was too bright, even with just a few lamps on. Steve would see too much, he’d see how weak and careless Tony had gotten.

Steve stared at the RT on Tony’s chest. With a heavy sigh, Steve brought the cloth over his bloody arms. “Why?” 

“Why what?” 

“I don’t even know at this point, Tony. Why _everything,_ I suppose,” Steve retorted, frustration evident in his voice. 

Tony had so many things he wanted to tell Steve. 

_Can you give me the world, Steve. I’ve given you mine._ He wanted to shout and punch his jaw and forget that Steve had saved him from a burning building years ago, and yet they were here, in this moment, the wheel kept spinning. 

Steve must have seen something on Tony’s face because he stopped his ministrations and threw the washcloth on the rug. 

His fists were clenched and Tony knew the way Steve looked when he wanted to hit something. This was familiar. This was like being in the rubbles of the Mansion all over again. 

Tony had remembered this last night. Or the other day. Whenever it was that he had relented and started drinking. The memory came up unbidden. Unlike some memories that were only snapshots, his recollection of Steve was always graphic, even if incomplete.

They had been in the Mansion to talk, one final time. Steve was pointing his fingers at Tony, just inches away, screaming at the top of his lungs. 

_“You're a good man at heart, Tony, but you've always thought you knew best by virtue of your genius. And once you decide, that's it,” Steve had said._

Tony remembered that had his faceplate up, crying, begging Steve to tell him what they could do. It was coming in pieces now. There was a photograph of the Avengers hanging on the walls. Steve had thrown the shield down. They’d been punching each other. Reaching no conclusion. Walking out of the Mansion without a second glance. 

“I promised myself I wasn’t going to yell,” Steve exhaled, addressing the chandeliers now. “But we find ourselves here again. I don't think there's anything I can say that you didn't hear since the last time."

"Better than that flophouse in Bowery, huh, Cap?" He tried to lift his lips into a semblance of a smirk. But grimaced instead, head pounding. 

His eyes stung. He wanted a goddamn drink.

“Heal yourself,” Steve commanded. “You can still do that, can’t you?”

Tony sat back on the sofa. “Why?” 

“Because I’m tired of seeing you bleed, goddamnit.” 

“Really? From here it looks like you want to punch me. Come on, Steve. Do it. No one will say a word. This is a discreet hotel made for those with surnames backed by money. Even if they can’t serve me alcohol, they won’t say a thing about screams that come from closed doors. I deserve it."

Steve turned to him. “Is this how you want to do this, Tony? You want us to yell some more? Is that all we’re good for now? We used to be better. A team.”

“Shellhead and Winghead,” Tony said, entertaining the idea that perhaps they’d never be in this moment if they made all the right decisions. Now, there was nothing but treachery and the will to dig their fingers into unstitched wounds. “Still like the sound of that?”

“And what if I do?” Steve challenged.

“Aren’t you angry?” 

“Of course, I’m angry!” Steve bellowed, throwing his fist against the wall. The mirror hanging on the fireplace shook with the force of Steve’s punch. When he removed his hand, there was a hole in the drywall. “I want to fucking scream until I pass out. Carol tells me you’re lying in your own filth, drunk out of your mind, calling for me.”

Tony flinched. There was an image swimming in the edges of his memory. Steve standing over him. The shield hitting his faceplate again and again until it cracked open. 

Steve's jaw was clenched and his eyes narrowed. Tony hated how he could be reduced to silence when Steve looked at him. He thought Steve might tackle him down and choke him. 

“I’m sorry — I.” Steve hid his face against his hand. “I’m angry. I really am. I shouldn’t have done that,” he tried again, voice jagged with forced calm. 

Steve flexed his bleeding knuckles, but they were already healing. 

Tony could do it too, heal his broken body, upgrade his brain. Be better, faster, stronger. Playing god, that’s what Steve always feared.

But Tony had no shrine. Even the power from calling the suit, letting it encapsulate his body with a single thought was a high that quickly dissipated once he remembered the expression of fear on Steve’s face. It was the same look Steve wore now. 

More than human. Less than human. They couldn’t figure each other out. 

Tony was a scientist, but he wasn’t good at measuring the quality of men, especially when the point of analysis was himself. Steve was Tony's point of comparison, and he didn't know where he placed in that grace, always running after the future, measuring his decisions, imperfections, complete fuck ups against Steve's ideals. 

He had the urge to vomit again because Steve was here, alive, and now Tony’s brain was lighting up and shoving another memory to the forefront of his mind: Steve was yelling at him from the confines of a cell. 

Tony had kept his faceplate down so Steve couldn’t see him cry. 

_"But you're an ill man. Do you know that? You have a new suit you can't control, new powers you don't understand."_

_"You're a sore loser, Captain America."_

Tony wasn’t going to cry, that would be reserved for later when he pounded the door of the suite across the hall and demanded they give him the contents of their wet-bar. 

“Why are you here? You already said we aren’t friends. We’ll never be friends again, you said. In Asgard, you punched me, you —” 

“Because _I’m angry!_ Do you know what it’s like to sit in a cell with your blood on my hands?” Steve balled his fists and inched towards Tony. He pointed a finger, screaming, “With the taste of your blood still in my mouth?” 

Tony didn't have anything to say, so he wrung his hands together and picked at the holes the nails had made on his fingers. He studied the nails on the coffee table.

Another memory: mourning Steve's dead body in the helicarrier. 

He closed his eyes and he saw Steve lying prone on the medical table, uniform ripped down his thighs, bloody shield resting on his chest. Tony, without his helmet, crying. 

Tony balked at the memory. 

“Steve, I’m — ”

“No, don’t.” Steve gave a laugh, and it sounded jagged and unbearably wrong, because out of the both of them, Steve was the more honest man. “You — it was all you. Me and you at the core of it. I wish I could hate you.” Steve walked to the windows and roughly drew the curtains back. “Do you know what it’s like to have your blood on my shield, how worthless of a man I felt? I could have killed you.”

_"You made this war! Tell me, Director Stark, was it worth it?"_

Tony choked, overwhelmed by the influx of memories filling his brain. It had been slow waking days before, feeding him short scenes, incomplete conversations, but now, he remembered. It was if a rubber band was snapping back into place. 

He gritted his teeth and put his head between his knees. His entire body felt like it was on fire. 

“You should have finished it,” Tony mumbled. Everything hurt. There were endless images slotting into their rightful places. But it wasn’t just snapshots; the memories were calibrated with context and emotions, reminding Tony exactly what he felt. 

There was a rustle. Steve’s shoes were in his sight. Tony looked up. 

Steve was looking at him in confusion. Tony held his gaze. There were those blue eyes again. 

“Those civilians shouldn’t have stopped you,” Tony added. 

“What are you saying?” Steve paused, hands on his hips. He looked powerful. A man with authority. Tony always admired him. But something seemed to have dawned on him because his eyes widened, and his lips tried to work, but no sound came out. The fight seemed to evaporate from him. 

“ _I remember._ ”

“But Dr. Lisk said that there were gaps in your memory. That your 'back-up' was formed before—" Steve swallowed and looked away. “Before the war.”

"My brain is overriding the back-up. It knows what happened. It’s been trying to supply me the information. Sometimes all I see are pictures, scenes without no words. Sometimes all I hear are conversations on a loop.” 

“So, this is why you’re drinking again,” Steve decided, like this explained it. “Is this penance, Tony? Is this so you could forget? If you keep drinking, you’ll kill yourself.” 

“Maybe that’s what I want,” Tony cried, gesturing to the room. He didn’t bother wiping the tears on his face. He was so sick of crying, he was sick of remembering, he was sick of his brain telling him what he did wrong, and how he wouldn’t have changed a single thing. 

Steve pinched the bridge of his nose then stared him down. “You don’t get to die. You’re going to stop drinking,” he said, each word rang like a threat. 

“I got you shot. On my watch, Steve! That’s on me. All the things I did, the things I’ve done. I know sorry is not enough. It’ll never be enough.”

He had so many things to be sorry for. 

“No, no, we’re _not talking_ about that right now.” Steve held up a hand, blanching. His eyes were brimming with tears, too.

“There are things I need to say,” Tony whispered, anguished. His cheeks felt hot and there was pain on the edges of his eyes. “I know I don’t deserve your friendship.”

“Tony, _stop,”_ Steve interrupted. He was biting his lips and kept shaking his head and refusing to meet Tony’s eyes. “Not right now.”

It was Asgard all over again. Tony’s mind had attempted to provide him context. Back then, it gave him the glimpses of life after he got Extremis, impressions of people's reactions to him. But his mind was catching up now. He sought Steve out in Asgard, placed a hand on his shoulder. _Can we talk?_ Tony had asked. He received a punch in the jaw for his question. 

Tony spiraled, filtering memories that had to do with Steve, and relived them. 

Lost in a trace, he was sure Steve left the hotel, but there was the sound of the faucet running in the bathroom. It went on for a while, the white noise lulling Tony into a fitful slumber. 

* * *

It’s about bodies and being human, all too human. His heart was a decaying organ that he wanted to pry out and substitute with something more durable.

He’d never wanted to be anything other than a man. Someone he could stand to look at in the mirror without the armor to protect him from all the parts he hated and let fester like some cancerous cell. He should remove it, operate on himself. Flay his skin back from his fingernails all the way up his forearms and past his shoulders. Break his ribs so he could reach in, remove all the awful, rotting parts of himself and replace it with the fitting screws, the right parts, but that required a master engineer with a vision. 

Tony couldn’t see himself as anything other than who he was at this moment. 

Staring at the blood-soaked steps of an empire in rubble, he greeted old friends.

* * *

Tony woke up slowly and stood on shaky legs. The room was clean. There was a plastic bag by the door filled with garbage, old newspapers from days ago, empty water bottles, moldy toast. He could see the outline of the vase he threw across the room inside. The puke was cleared off, now a stain on the rug. 

He entered the bedroom and found Steve sitting on the edge of the tub, testing the water’s temperature. Steve’s hair was still damp, but in disarray, as if he’d been running his hands through them. He was barefoot, dressed only in his shirt and jeans. 

The nails and blood on the counters were disposed of and the tiles were free of puke and broken glass. The smell of piss was gone. 

When Steve finally turned to look at Tony, his eyes were red rimmed and his body was tense.

Tony swallowed, surprised to still see him here. “Steve?”

“There’s blood on your pants,” Steve observed, voice empty. 

“Oh.”

“I was just going to call you for a bath.” Steve cleared his throat and stood. He offered Tony a hand. “Come on, lets get you out of that.”

He stared at Steve for a beat, unsure of what this was about. Tony wasn’t used to people being gentle or kind anymore. But here was Steve, proving him wrong again and again. 

Tony didn’t deserve this, he knew that. His heart was pounding so hard.

Steve walked over and gestured at his trousers. “Can I?”

The last time he’d been this close to Steve, they’d been at each other's throats. Tony remembered that now. 

Tony stepped closer, biting the inside of his mouth to stop himself from saying something stupid. 

He nodded, watching how Steve’s fingers twisted the button and pulled the zipper down. The sound echoed in the quiet of the room. 

Tony held his breath, waiting. 

Steve glanced at him. There was a question he didn’t utter, like he already knew the answer. He removed Tony’s pants and boxers in one swift movement, then patted his thighs, urging Tony to stepped out of them. Then, he was kneeling on the floor and pulling Tony’s socks off. 

Stripped out of his armor, naked, not even the exo-skeleton from Extremis covering him, Tony felt human in the most elementary sense. This might be all Steve wanted. For him to remain the same, untouched, untroubled by the responsibilities that came with being more than what he was born to do. 

Simple, plain, human. 

“Steve, I remember what happened,” Tony insisted, feeling raw and cut open. “I remember...”

There's Bernie Tolliver and his ugly green coat with stains and holes on the cuff. Protect something, he had said, it gives meaning to your life. Tony tried. He did. He saw the future and knew what was coming. Tony had an imperfect solution, but it was a long con, and players like him had to roll on the dice. 

He’d gambled and lost.

Steve made an irritated sound and stood in one graceful motion. “No, don’t talk. We’re not talking. What I’m doing is getting you clean.” He grabbed Tony’s wrist, and as opposed to his strangled tone, his touch was soft. He helped Tony into the tub, and murmured, “I need you clean.”

The water was too hot but Tony didn’t complain. It smelled like lavender. Tony sighed, dropping further into the waters. 

“I want to talk.” Tony forced the words out, inspecting the bubbles popping in the water.

“It doesn’t go well when we try to talk.” Steve grabbed a cup from the cabinet, dipped it into the water, and washed Tony’s hair. He was focused on the task, scrubbing Tony’s hair with gentle hands. He washed off the shampoo and did the same with the conditioner. 

Tony sat back and mustered the courage to look at Steve. Beautiful and larger than life itself. Tony was willing to tear them apart if it meant keeping Steve alive. He’d failed that too, apparently. 

Steve took the sponge and washed Tony’s back, reaching up behind him, moving his arms around to get at the side of his ribs.

Steve washed the soap off. 

Tony had never felt as pathetic as in this moment, lying in his own mess, the bathwater tinged in blues and grays, flecks of blood still on the bed of his fingernails.

When Steve finished, he sat on the edge of the tub and watched Tony. He pushed Tony's hair back and Tony knew that Steve was always the braver one out of both of them, but he wondered where this impulse to touch came from. 

“I wasn’t ready to see you back in Asgard,” Steve said. “I didn’t react well. I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.” 

“No, it’s not, I hit you.”

Tony shrugged. “I deserved it.”

“Shellhead,” Steve whispered, in admonishment. 

Tony hadn’t heard that name in so long. 

What a profoundly awful moment to have Steve stand before him, cradling Tony's face as if he was something precious and worth saving. There was nothing more devastating than having those eyes on him, Steve whispering, “Oh, Tony —” 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I don’t deserve it, I know,” Tony repeated, crying. “I’m so tired.” 

Steve climbed in, no care for getting his clothes wet. He pulled Tony into his arms, embracing him as if the single act could erase their sins, rewrite their mistakes.

He dropped his face on Steve’s chest, too afraid to see what Steve looked like, too afraid to show Steve what a mess he was. 

* * *

He didn’t know how long they sat in the tub. The water turned cold and Tony’s fingers were white and pruney. But Steve kept humming and kneading the knots on his shoulders, and all Tony knew was that he didn’t deserve this. 

He wanted it. He was selfish. Steve was here again, trying to save him. 

Steve stood, exited the tub and grabbed a towel. His clothes soaked the floor but he paid it no mind. Instead, he guided Tony up and dried him. Patting the towel over his shoulders and scrubbing his hair. A brief wipe over his cock. Tony wondered if Steve was like this with his lovers, too. Attentive in a domineering sort of way. 

“Can you heal yourself, please?”

“Why?” He stared at the lines on Steve’s face. There was a new freckle on the edge of his left eye. He wanted to lean over, press his mouth against it. “Why are you being so nice now?”

Steve sighed. “Why are you so insistent on punishing yourself?” 

“Aren’t you still angry?” Tony said, his voice sounding small. 

“I’m furious, and you’re drinking again.” He must have seen something in Tony’s face because his expression softened. He plucked the gauze from the drawer and rubbed ointment on Tony’s hands, up his arms. He bandaged them, a frown on his face. “And you’re right, there are things we should talk about. It's hard to bury what happened between us. I never thought we'd get to this point. We’re a mess.”

“It didn’t use to be like this,” Tony replied. 

“No, it didn’t.” Steve grabbed the robe hanging in the closet. He didn’t offer it to Tony. Instead, he moved Tony’s limbs like a doll and wrapped him up. “I’m sick of fighting you.”

“Me too. But everything is awful and fucked.” Tony rubbed a hand over his face because he couldn’t keep looking at Steve. If Tony held their gazes any longer, he’d never look away. Instead, his eyes traced the crown molding on the corners of the room and followed it up the walls, past the puddle on the floor, the chipped sink, and up the mosaic ceiling. 

Steve tied the double knot on the robe. “I would be worse if you weren’t around.” 

“Even after everything?”

“Because of everything,” Steve said, earnest and heartbreakingly determined. “Now, come on.” 

He pulled Tony into the bedroom. The curtains were open. There was only a hint of the moon, outshined by the burning lights of the city. 

It was raining outside. A dull drizzle, like the beat of a dying heart. 

The sheets were new, pulled to the corners and pristine. The tools were placed in a bag against the wall. The nail gun was nowhere in sight. 

Steve’s shirt clung onto his torso, but instead of doing something about it, he led Tony to the bed. He lifted the sheets up, raising an eyebrow. 

Tony slid in, biting down the argument at the tip of his tongue.

Steve walked to the closet, grabbed one of Tony’s shirts and boxers. He turned his back to Tony and stripped, all mechanical movements. The muscles of Steve’s shoulders stretched as he pulled the shirt off. Pants were next, and even with his bare ass in front of Tony’s eyes, there was no seduction, no playfulness. 

They’d never had the former. Tony used to be satisfied with the latter. 

Fully dressed, Steve turned off the lights and padded over to the bed. He tugged at the duvet and slipped in. 

In the shadows of the night, the city kept moving. He filtered out alerts from Exremis and focused on Steve. He refused to glance at the dark corners of the room, lit up only from the bathroom’s light. 

Silence enveloped them. Tony twitched and the stabs on his arms itched, but he didn’t dare move. Steve was measuring his breaths. 

“I didn’t come here to apologize,” Steve finally said. He lied prone, his fingers idly scratching the sheets. He shook his head. 

Steve was always shaking his head. There was a time when he used to smile at Tony. It seemed like a dream now.

“What did you come here for then?” His chest grew tight and there was that feeling of bile rising up his throat again. 

He suspected Carol gave him the room number. If he hadn't answered, Steve would have broken down the door. 

There wasn't anywhere to run to. He didn’t really want to hear Steve’s answer.

He shifted, and their toes touched. Steve exhaled, hard. Tony breathed in the smell of him. Sometimes, when he closed his eyes, he recalled when they first found Steve on ice and fighting side by side. 

Now, his brain supplied him memories of being on opposing sides, tearing their team apart, destroying parts of the city in their hubris.

Tony bit his lip. Hard. He wasn’t going to cry. He would repeat the mantra until it was true.

“I came to tell you that I was wrong when I said that we can't help people who are determined to destroy themselves. I should have tried harder. I was fucking broken up, Tony. You weren’t on my side. I know this isn’t the first time we’ve fought, but this was the first time I thought I’d really lose you. That there’d be no coming back. I was scared. I was upset.” Steve turned, his eyes nearly black in the dark. There was nothing but the crack of the light to illuminate them. But it was obvious that Steve was warring between rage and something else, something bitter. 

“I’m still furious, but I can’t let you do this. I can’t let you drink your life away. You _don’t_ get to die _,”_ Steve said, and Tony couldn’t determine whether Steve was commanding or begging. “I just want you to be alright.” 

Tony’s mouth was dry and his head hurt. He couldn’t feel his toes. Despite the duvet over them, he felt cold. He was close to losing it again. He wanted nothing more than for Steve to be gone. 

No, no, no, that wasn’t true. All he wanted was for Steve to be back. But not like this. Not with Steve’s mouth drawn into a frown. 

He really wished that he was still drunk because if he had to look at Steve, he might take the nail gun again and staple his eyes shut. 

“Can you stop trying to die?” Steve whispered, harshly, turning and shifting to the middle of the bed until they were just inches apart. “I am broken up about this, Tony. It was always me and you. You remember that? How they used to joke that we’re Mom and Dad? I think of that, us in the Mansion, us in the Tower, leading the team, doing good in this world, and I think, I can do _better._ I insist on making this better. I’m not backing down. So, I’m here to tell you that even though I’m livid and disappointed, and sometimes I don’t want to see you, I still care. I’m not giving up on you. I know you’ve been here the last week. I was the one that sent Carol.” 

“Oh,” was all Tony said.

“I didn’t think you wanted to see me. We didn’t part on good terms in Asgard,” Steve added.

“I was trying to make amends. I was already remembering things then, Steve.” His eyes stung, but Steve forced their gazes to meet. Tony wanted to look away, but he couldn’t. _Face your demons when they stare you in the face._ Steve licked his lips, and Tony followed the movement of his tongue. “Not everything, but mostly, you. Us. The EMP, the Mansion, what came after…”

Steve reached out and placed a hand on Tony’s shoulders, urging him to go on. Tony shivered with the force of it. He hadn’t been touched in a long time. 

Not like this. Never gentle. Never sweet, never without the promise of violence. 

He couldn’t do this anymore. He couldn’t, he’d already fallen apart. There was nothing left to give. 

Tony couldn’t shake the need to tell Steve how he felt. He never wanted it to be like this — he never wanted for Steve to die. There were so many things Tony preferred not to remember, but his brain filled him now. Non-stop, images of Steve screaming at him in the cell, the veins on his temples bulging. 

“I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know if I want to do this anymore,” Tony cried, scratching at his arms. He was restless. He wanted to be up and on the balcony, away from Steve. But his body refused to cooperate. “Sometimes I think I’m jealous of you,” Tony admitted. “Of how you’re motivated to do what’s right. Of how you’re so sure, Steve. But what's right isn’t always what’s best, and I don’t need you to understand that. I wouldn’t have changed a damn thing. In fact, knowing what I remember now, I’d do it again, and I can’t be sorry for that. But I am sorry about what happened to _us_. It kills me to know what we’ve become. How we’ve gotten to this point.” 

“Stop, Tony, just stop.” Steve’s fingers tightened on Tony’s shoulder for a beat. “You and I both know that this isn’t just about the Registration. It was everything else.” 

“Tell me, then, tell me, what it is,” Tony urged, catching the taste of his tears as they stream down his face. “Can we still fix this?”

Steve was shushing him and then half of his body was inches from Tony’s. 

“It’s everything else. I was betrayed by you, my best friend. You were the first face I saw in this new world. Do you know what that meant to me?” Steve reached out and put his hands on the side of Tony's face, rubbing his thumb to the corner of Tony’s eyes. Steve’s words were hurried and fierce when he said, "I’m angry, and I haven’t forgiven you, and it hurt, Tony. To be in the cell and have you on the other side. You didn’t even show me your face.”

“Steve, I’m sorry,” Tony said, completely broken. That was another memory that appeared before he started drinking. “I’m so fucking — I couldn’t take off the mask.” Tony set a hand to Steve's wrist and pressed on it, feeling the pulse of his heart.

“You remember that?”

Tony nodded, his voice sounding paper-thin. “You would have seen me cry.”

It’s only when Tony felt the wetness sliding down his neck did he realize that Steve was crying, too, then he said, “When I learned you were in a coma, I — I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t. I don’t want to lose you. I — I haven’t lost you, have I?” 

“No, never,” Tony said, watching as Steve visibly sagged with relief. “I should be asking you that.” 

Tony was sure he’d lost Steve, even before he bled out on the Courthouse’s steps. All evidence pointed that it may not be true, but Tony didn’t have the courage to ask. He tilted up, counting the lines on the edges of Steve's eyes. 

Tony finally understood that it wasn’t drinking that was a slow death. It was love, and its failures to mend things, because love wasn’t enough. Tony thought of the most banal sentiment when it came to Steve. 

_I want to see your scars, cut you up where the wounds healed just to see how you bleed, then I’ll crawl inside you, and stay there for as long as I can._

That’s how Tony loved: loud, violent, and desperate. He loved Steve, and Tony was filled with shame because even now, he couldn’t reason with himself to stop. 

“Open your eyes, and look at me, Tony. Please.”

“Why,” he croaked, because he didn’t understand. Didn’t he deserve this. 

Steve pressed their foreheads together and his breath ghosted over Tony’s face. He was shaking, pulling Tony into his arms, a half-embrace that didn't work because Tony’s limbs were heavy and fucked and he couldn’t raise his arms anymore, because the pain was suddenly too much.

“Steve.”

“God, I want to hate you so bad. I can’t. I can’t — ” Steve curled his body, wrapping his arms around Tony’s back and neck, holding too tight, like he was afraid Tony would disappear. He’s crying. “I don’t know how I can keep _doing_ _this._ ” 

“What,” Tony said, because all other words were inadequate. 

“Seeking you. Needing you, desperately. I don’t want to lose you.” Steve’s voice was wrecked. 

But none of that mattered when Steve dropped to hide his face in the juncture of Tony's throat. 

Steve was silent, but his body shook. Tony stopped breathing. “You hate me. You do. You —”

Steve was sobbing. Tony felt drunk with power for a brief moment, and then he was crying, too. He pawed at Steve’s chest, wrapping his arms around him and pulling him as close as possible. 

“I don’t hate you. I’ve said — I _don’t._ I hate what we’ve become. I hate how I’m still angry. I hate that I can’t tell you when I’ll forgive you. I hate everything that’s happened. I hate how we’re here. Hating is tiring and I don’t have it in me to fight you anymore.” And for the first time, Tony thought that was unsteady, unknowable, because this was everything Tony’s wanted to hear, and how could Steve say this now. “I am furious, Tony. But when I close my eyes, I just see you in your armor and I don’t know if I would have stopped, if I would have dropped the shield if people didn’t stop me. I _hate_ that I was angry enough to get to that state of mind. That I _wanted_ to hurt you. I did, Tony, and I’m so very ashamed.”

Tony took a breath, for once, unsure of the future. They were at crossroads here. A decision had to be made. 

He urged Steve’s head up so their eyes could meet. Steve was truly gorgeous in all senses, even when he was awful and hurting. Steve was a paradox of emotions: grief and anger, all at once, and Tony could commiserate with the downward tilt of his lips, the shadows on his face. Even in the darkness, Steve's eyes were bright, filled with tears. 

Tony took all of this, catalogued it in his new brain. A new memory. There was nothing to override this time.

Steve had decided on something because he was nodding and shifting forward, and this was Steve at his most dangerous, when he was earnest to a fault. When he’d decided on something, he’d follow through, everything else be damned. “I’m here because I lo— ”

“No. Stop. Don’t say it,” Tony mumbled, turning when Steve tried to tilt his jaw. “Fuck.”

Steve’s hand was so warm, and Tony leaned into it, miserable. 

“I’m here, telling you everything I never wanted to say. Never wanted to speak about, Tony. I love you.” 

“You don’t love me,” Tony whispered in the dark. It was true. People were braver in the shadows, when they could hide. 

“Who are you to decide that? I love you, I do,” Steve promised. 

“You never said.”

“I was paralyzed with fear!” Steve's hand slipped from Tony's face, down his shoulders, then his arms. His fingers skimmed the bandages on Tony's wrist until he found Tony's hands. He laced them together, not tugging, just touching. 

Steve jutted out his jaw, defiant. Steve wore every sentiment on his face, but sometimes Tony still couldn’t figure out thow to read him. 

“You’re untouchable, you know that? You’re what we orbit around,” Steve continued, drawing circles on Tony’s thumb, smoothing. Steve felt the edges of the bandages and grimaced. “You found me. You gave me a home." Steve let go of one hand and wiped at his cheeks. The tears fell and fell. Their sniffles echoed in the room. Steve smiled. "You were always there for me, until you weren't. I didn't think I'd ever lose you, and I did. It's awful. I tell myself you must feel the same. I think...we're one and the same. I tell myself that and I try to understand your choices. It's still hard for me to do. But I know you, Tony. You commit to your responsibility. I commit to mine. We have history. I can't forget that. You were the first face I saw.”

Tony's breath caught, and his heart, the rotten thing, fell into shambles. He unlaced their fingers and pushed Steve's hair back, finally giving into the desire. His fingers followed the line from Steve's head, down to his cheeks, wiping at the wetness there. 

"I don't remember how or when I started loving you. All I know is why, and there's a million reasons for it, half of it is what I've come to resent you for. Only, that isn't true. Perhaps, that's my favorite part of you," Tony confessed, rubbing his index finger on the edges of Steve's lips. "I deluded myself for so long. But Steve, all I ever wanted was your friendship. For you to be safe." Tony dropped his hand, made himself smaller. He didn't know what to do, and he told Steve just as much. "Where do we go on from here, Steve? Sometimes love isn’t enough.”

“It has to be,” Steve argued, sporting a tired smile. “We’ll go from here.”

Steve might be wrong, but Tony didn't disagree. 

Tony didn’t know who moved first, but one moment, they filled the room with the sound of their cries, and then they were kissing. There was the taste of salt in both of their mouths. 

Steve pressed him deeper into the mattress, and glided between his legs. Breathing hard, he ran a hand on Steve's chests, tracing the valleys of his collarbones before lifting up to kissing his cheek. Steve choked, a quiet sound in the dead of the night, and offered him a shaky smile. 

Tony’s face was tight with dried tears, and he suspected that he looked as messy and chaotic as he felt. But his lips curled into a tiny, uneven smile. Steve’s lips parted. He rocked forward, and their mouths met again. 

He knew in the morning there would be work to be done, difficult discussions to be had, but for now, he sunk deeper into the comfort of Steve hovering above him, kissing the tears from his eyes.

This was the natural order of things, both of them screaming until their throats were filled with terror for all the half-lies they’d spoken, and then kissing, as if hurt and pain were simply a rite of passage to obtain something more sublime. 

* * *

In the morning, Tony woke up alone. No note from Steve. 

He washed his face and uncapped the mouthwash. He dumped the contents down the drain. It would be too easy to drink it. Too easy to go down the hotel bar and drink. 

Tony brushed his teeth and changed the robe for clean slacks and a sweater. He examined the rumpled sheets. He imagined Steve was still there, pretended he was out on the balcony, enjoying the view of the city. 

His heart felt heavy, maybe reconciliation was too good to be true.

Tony grabbed a coat, and as he stepped out of the hotel room, Steve appeared with a sheepish smile, a hand still raised as if to knock on the door. 

“I was hoping you’d still be asleep. I ran out to get bagels from that place you like on 43rd Street.” He held the bagels up.

He was afraid that Steve had left and that last night was simply wishful thinking.

“Oh, good morning.” Tony leaned closer, letting out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. His heart slotted back in place as Steve waved the bag. “I thought you had left.”

“Just for a little while, sorry, I didn’t say. I didn’t want to disturb your sleep,” Steve explained. He eyed Tony up and down, head tilting. “Going somewhere?”

Tony nodded. “AA meeting.” 

For a beat, Steve seemed like he was trying to parse out words. His eyes were soft, too forgiving. “Can I walk you?”

“Alright,” Tony replied, shutting the door and leading them to the elevators. 

They walked out of The Plaza side by side, close enough that their shoulders touched.

Outside, New York was alive and booming. Taxis honked, and a cyclist yelled for pedestrians to move from the streets. Tony smiled, and turned to Steve. “Did they have sesame?”

Steve laughed, opened the bag, and passed Tony a bagel. It was slathered in vegetable cream cheese. 

They munched on their breakfast, no talk between them. New York was already too loud. 

At a street corner, Tony caught the sign down a subway station, pausing for a beat. 

He never told Steve the story of the woman with the fur coat and how he had to explain the scene to the police officers. Tony decided he’d tell Steve someday, not now. 

They stepped into the station. It was dark. The lights flickered. There were only a few people milling about in the corners. A few sat on the benches, looking bored or reading a newspaper. 

Steve’s lips quirked when Tony moved to buy a MetroCard. “Come on, use mine.”

Tony followed Steve through the turnstile and waited for the 1 train to arrive. He walked to the edge of the platform, leaning over to look at the tunnel. 

The last time he was in a station, he was a kid, not even a man. Trains reminded him too much of blood on tracks and mutilated bodies. Even with his tenure as Iron Man, he never got used to the way life left someone's eyes. 

He wondered whether being Iron Man might be an addiction too. Because once you're an alcoholic, you'll always be one. You drop the bottle and tell yourself that you're better, but you've just replaced your addiction with a healthy obsession. Something socially acceptable. 

Tony thought being Iron Man might be that. At least he would be doing good in this world. 

He’d have a duty. Be respectable. Maybe he could still have that. He still had work to do.

Tony looked down to see the gum beside his shoe. The tracks were littered with garbage and fallen Metrocards. But no dead bodies, and everyone in the station appeared satisfied enough to simply wait for the train to arrive. 

Steve clasped Tony’s elbow, curious, a question on his face. But he didn't ask. Instead, he pulled Tony back until they stood as close as possible. Steve’s hand slipped down and he intertwined their fingers together, lightly scratching the gauge on Tony’s hand.

The concrete tiles on the other side of the station were dirty and chipped, and it was a different chaos Tony never expected. Little by little, more pedestrians came underground, filling the platform with chatter from different languages. There was a high pitched laugh close by. 

The screeching on the tracks announced the train’s near arrival. 

The doors opened, and Tony stepped forward. 

Another train passed through. 

**Author's Note:**

> Re-dated for reveals! Kudos and comments mean the world. Thank you for reading <3
> 
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